If this is your first visit, be sure to
check out the FAQ by clicking the
link above. You may have to register
before you can post: click the register link above to proceed. To start viewing messages,
select the forum that you want to visit from the selection below.

17th Poem Of The Zookopolis: "Pomp and Circumcision"

Pomp and Circumcision

I renounce association
with them that climb tall mountains,
not to breathe emaciated air
and find in protracted breath the first obstacle,
but who rise to occupy peaks of privilege,
once there, conspire to fat the tally
and shower perspective rains upon the valley.

I denounce the lack of strength in men
who bend easily in the whispers of fashion winds
- come apart in the wails -
who carry pails
in cold pursuit of someone else's grail;
stand stiff with fear inside male corsets
tightly fitted to build definition,
and offer a chest to the world
that is mostly imagination: a fool's flag unfurled.

From insipid medallions pinned in hive homage
to courage not found in lesser toads,
to superfluous psalms connecting obedience
with carriage and conduct worthy of odes,
to tear-lacquered acknowledgement of debts owed
to sacrifice, duty, love of country,
and other sublime buttons not seen or sewn
on the ordinary shirt;
from such musings in the vapid tower far above the common dirt,
arise notions of greatness in the smallest men
on this mere mortal Earth.

The tragic sight of young men dolled
in manicured minion linen worn
over cummerbunds and breeches, and standing tall
alongside mercenary snakes, calculating leeches,
and fangless lions
... is enough to induce vomit in any independent creature.
It elevates simple slugs and worms wriggling on the morning grass
over humans and acts of form and uniform
(in any writer's probe, painter's sketch or sculptor's fetch
of freedom).

Whilst yet another special interests day masquerades
as a mating call for national allegiance, the podium
delivers a steady drizzle of bromides
promptly collected by the lobes of untapped manhood
and whisked inside
to begin accumulating wax in the ears,
until the deafness only hears
the bugles of youth.
Stepping forth and claiming their hour,
with sharp salutes and rigid jowls,
each robot, factory fresh and not yet busted,
jumps from the toy box
and pumps its own balloon of power:
a small mechanical tax
to be paid before receiving ounces of the glow.
But no one really cares,
for the essence of honour is fatally declared
in each pronounce and scale
of pomp and show.

Above the boyish brigades
and monochrome brains, are the no-nonsense brands
of bastard
(them drawn to the money train and victors' spoils);
further up, them entwined in the time-borne coil
of slaves and masters
(the latter, dyslexic swines reflexively substituting entitlement
for enlightenment states)
and forever lifting silver spoons off broken plates.

Bridled with long lists of honorifics bestowed,
the welded unions of uppercrusts and lower souls
squat on quiet pews each and every Sunday;
the wholesome wells, by Monday, fouled
by fumes of sulphur rising from the privilege ponds.
Squeezing blue blood down the squirted pens,
signing death warrants in the hurried rents
of time bridging intervals of pleasure;
generals in the war den
thinking without guilt or zen,
sipping whisky, affixing plans
to raid more lands and steal more treasures.

Tired old owls perched on high teak nests
- one eye blinking and the other in cold stare arrested -
clink beaks now and then to give sound to authority.
A parliament of tired old gullets
reduced to digesting bugs, leaving bigger game
to the younger gen
though not yet ready to surrender fame
captured in the epilogue of past conquests.
Nothing to them to send peons and pawns
into the smell of roses on quiet lawns
to be occasionally rinsed, some daily showered
by weeping women purchased with widow's dowers.

In the receding dell, the sweet sounds of birds
can be heard calling to Heaven for help,
whilst the brass-percolated cacophony
of empty pulchritude and vainglory
blasts into the song of sanctuary,
and heats the asphalt under the high haughty steps
of militant mobile mannequins,
all the way to the hearth stones of Hell.
Such is the surface charm that organizes helter
and holds mirrors, minors, and easy girls.

So frightened are these elves that pose as patriarchal earls
(of having their dupe discovered by real men),
that they dare not move
not even to offer an apology to themselves
- their own puddles of conscience -
for blinding legions of soft eyes committed
to finding stoics, nobles and substitute fathers.
Dare not stride from the family shield
(in lesser domains: gang regalia)
nor port a second thought as they glance glibly from their balconies,
and give testament to the starch
of the state parade passing by,
and apply the stamp of potentates to the march,
in mockery of armament.